


Tenderloin

by DarkFairytale



Series: Mentor Tormentor [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Deception, M/M, Manipulation, Murder, Murder Husbands, Murder husbands having a merry time murdering, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Season/Series 03, mention of rape, obviously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-06-01 09:58:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6513559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkFairytale/pseuds/DarkFairytale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> “This was different.” Will said. He was uneasy, but nowhere near as horrified as he would have once been over the fact that he had killed a man. “This was first-degree murder.”</i>
</p><p>  <i>“Actually,” said Hannibal lightly, making a show of checking on the meat that was roasting in the oven, “It has been at 180 degrees for the last nine minutes. 350 degrees, if we are working in Fahrenheit.” </i></p><p>The first three hunts of Hannibal and Will following their defeat of the Dragon. They require Will learning a few things; how to ballroom dance, how to seduce, how to wear a suit, how to kill and eat people, how to deal with Hannibal's flippantly blatant cannibal puns... Luckily, Hannibal is there to teach him.</p><p>[Can be read as a standalone, or as a part of the Mentor Tormentor series].</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am back with another Post-S3 Murder Husbands story! 
> 
> As said in the summary, this fic can work as a standalone, but is written as a part of my Mentor Tormentor series. This fic is essentially expanding on the first three of Hannibal and Will's hunts that are briefly described in Chapter 3 of my 'Tormentor, Mentor, Pleaser, Appeaser' fic. I hope you enjoy, and please feel free to check out the series for more of my Murder Husband tales!

Stacey Flannigan had had a truly shitty day. In fact, it had topped off a pretty shitty week. She had had tenants calling her up to complain about this and that; a leaking roof, and a fault in the heating, the fact she was upping the rent. Yadda yadda yadda.  On and on and on. An endless list of problems that a) she really could not care less about for people she could not care less for, b) were not high on her priority list, and c) would not help her get out of the slippery slope of debt she was steadily descending down. Her penchant for gambling had bled her dry. Down and down had gone her accounts.

She downed her third shot. Down and down and down.

And here she was, at nine thirty in the evening on a Thursday, knocking back shots of cheap, shitty vodka, all on her own.

_“You won’t have to try all that hard.” Hannibal Lecter told Will Graham._

Stacey just so happened to be seated at the end of the bar that had a good viewpoint of the door. Not many people had been coming and going, so her eyes were naturally drawn to the entrance when the door swung open. It meant she immediately clocked the brooding brunet beauty that stalked in.

Maybe her day was about to take a turn for the better.

He did not appear to notice her as he ordered a drink at the bar and then took it to a table in a dimmed corner of the room. That was no matter. She could make him notice her.

It was a rare occasion that Stacey found herself unable to pick up a man to take him home. And she very much wanted to take that man home. He was lounging easily in his chair, fingers curled loosely around his beer; brunet curls gelled back from his face, an outfit of dark colours and leather that hugged his relatively slim frame. His face was pale and etched in a melancholy frown like the weight of the world was upon his shoulders, but his relaxed confidence suggested he had a handle on whatever weight that was. Dark, handsome and mysterious. Stacey’s favourite type.

_“How do you mean?” Will asked, confused. He was already dreading having to make conversation, let alone successfully attracting someone._

_“You are her type.” Hannibal dismissed, “She has left various venues in the last week with brunet males.”_

_“They were all big biker blokes, though.”_

_“Quite honestly, Will, I think you are endearing enough that she will see past the fact that you are not the size she seems to prefer. As to the black leather articles customary to the ‘biker’ fashion, a change of style will probably be best for false-identities sake.”_

Stacey had another shot and a beer, eyeing the man up from afar, before making her move. Because if she didn’t try, she wouldn’t get. She swung off her bar stool and sauntered toward the stranger. He looked up at her from under his outrageous eyelashes as he noticed her approach, and his eyebrow hitched up just a fraction. As she got closer she noticed a jagged scar running down one of his cheeks; there was a tale of rebellion and danger behind that, she was sure. Jesus Christ but he was handsome. He was a prize, no doubt about that, and this was a gamble Stacey was determined not to lose.

The man did not speak, he just watched her approach, until she was standing right in front of him.

_“What do I say?” Will asked. He was already nervous, days before the planned meet, and he wrung his hands together. All social anxieties he had gotten to leave behind since leaving the world behind for Hannibal suddenly came flooding back. Hannibal never made him feel anxious in that way anymore._

_“Do not overthink it, Will,” Hannibal told him. Will felt Hannibal press up against his back, and strong arms wrapped around him, hands coming up to still Will’s fidgeting, “It can be something simple. In fact, it is best to keep it simple.” Will felt Hannibal lean in, his lovers’ cheek pressed against his hair and his breath playing on the shell of Will’s ear, “Do you come here often?” Hannibal asked._

_Will would have guffawed at Hannibal using such a cheap, overused pickup line, if it wasn’t for the way Hannibal said it; heavy accent, rolling off of his tongue with a low, velveteen tone._

_Will shuddered and pressed back into those welcoming arms. He groaned in frustration with himself, before he found himself begging, “Say it again.”_

“Do you come here often?” Stacey asked the handsome stranger. She hadn’t seen him in the bar before, she definitely would have remembered him, but he looked comfortable enough in the atmosphere.

The man looked mildly surprised, before his lips quirked up in a smile of amusement. It was extremely charming. “Funny,” The man said, and his voice wasn’t quite what she expected; softer than she imagined. He leant forward in his chair, looking up at her with that tilted smile, “I was going to ask you the exact same thing.”

Stacey was flattered. “I come here now and again, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you.” Stacey was lying, she was in this bar at least twice a week these days, and she was surprised she had not bumped into this man before now. It was shame, but one she was aiming to remedy. “We must have missed each other.”

The man made an obvious show of looking her up and down, his eyes trailing slowly, before his gaze met hers again, “We must have.” He said. “I definitely would have remembered you.”

Whilst Stacey tried and failed not to look smug about his compliment, she watched the man eye the bar where she had been sitting. He nodded towards the line of empty glasses, “Rough day?”

“You don’t know the half of it.” She sighed, faking the put-upon tone in her voice so best to gain sympathy.

The man’s gaze flicked back to her again and he watched her steadily, “Maybe you need something to take your mind off it.” He suggested casually, leaning back in chair, all long lines and angles. He was a little on the lean side, but good god Stacey was open to making an exception to her preference for muscles in this case.

“Maybe I do.” She said, pushing out her chest a little more and cocking her hip. “Are you volunteering?”

The man smiled a little wider, clearly pleased, “Maybe I am.”

She sat down in the empty seat beside him and crossed her legs, intentionally letting her short skirt ride further up her thighs, “I’m Stacey.” She offered.

The man nodded to her and tilted his glass in acknowledgment. “Gray.” He said. “Can I get you another drink?”

Stacey was looking forward to getting to know Gray a whole lot better.

_“And then what?” Will asked, breath short as Hannibal’s hands slipped up under his shirt and covered the scar on Will’s stomach, thumbs running back and forth over the raised pink line._

_“You let her think you’re interested,” Hannibal spoke into his ear, pulling him back into Hannibal’s body as close as Will could go, “You leave the bar with her. You suggest going back to yours.” A hand moved out of his shirt and reached up to tuck a curl back behind Will’s ear. Will closed his eyes, heart speeding up, “And you lead her to me.”_

_“To you.” Will agreed with a moan, as Hannibal descended to mouth at Will’s neck._

_“We will kill her together, Will.” Hannibal promised against his skin._

_“Our first kill since the Dragon.” Will said. He was afraid. The Dragon had been a fight for their lives. The hunt for Bedelia had not ended in her death. This was going to be the first time Will killed for the sake of killing, with his own two hands._

_“It will be beautiful.” Hannibal told him._

_Will tilted his neck to the side to allow Hannibal further access, and thought of the beauty he had understood up on the clifftop when they took down the Great Red Dragon. He thought of how pleased he had been when Hannibal had praised him when they had spent that evening with Bedelia. He thought of the conversation that he and Hannibal had had only a few weeks ago, when Will had brought up Hannibal’s restlessness and his want to start hunting again. Will had brought it up intentionally. He had given Hannibal an opening to ask Will to join him. Hannibal had done just that, and Will had accepted._

_He had accepted, and Hannibal was so proud of him._

_He was not going to disappoint Hannibal before the first hunt had even begun._

“So, where was it again that you said you lived?” Stacey leant heavily on Gray, acting drunker than she actually was, so that she could cling closer to his arm.

“Not far.” Gray replied vaguely.

He was probably hoping she would forget the way after their night was over. He needn’t have worried. Stacey did hook ups, not relationships. She shrugged noncommittally and let it go.

“You remind me of someone I know.” Gray told her conversationally, as he supported her down one darkened street and into the next.

_Will stared out of the deserted antique shop window to the street outside. Hannibal had just pointed out his intended target for their first hunt._

_“She looks just like Alana.” Will said. He squinted and shifted his glasses and peered at the woman in the street, talking to someone on her mobile; the same shaped face, the long, straight brunette hair, the smart dress sense, the same physique._

_“Does she?” Hannibal frowned and leant toward the window as well, “I suppose there are a few physical similarities.” He was feigning innocence. Will knew him better than that._

_Will scoffed, “A few.” He stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest, “Not her, Hannibal. Pick someone else.”_

_Hannibal stood back as well, and looked at him, long, steady and unrelenting. He looked disappointed. “I have chosen her, William, whether you care to join me or not.”_

_Will realised that Hannibal had picked this woman on purpose. He had the motive of the woman's history as a corrupt landlady and landowner as a reason to choose her, but her similarity to Alana was no coincidence. He was testing Will’s loyalties to those he left behind. He was testing Will’s loyalty to him._

“Oh yeah?” Stacey asked, coyly, “What is she like?”

Stacey was blatantly fishing, but Gray humoured her, “She’s a beautiful woman. I wanted to date her, at one point.”

“Aww,” Stacey gushed, “What happened?”

Gray shrugged, “She met someone else. I met someone else.”

And that was when someone stepped out in front of them. He had been standing against the wall of the dark alley, hidden in the shadows, but now he loomed before them, taller than they were and broader at the shoulder.

The first thought to enter Stacey’s mind was that this man was a mugger. He was watching them with too much intensity to merely have been passing by. He had been waiting for them.

His face was all sharp angles and high cheekbones, and he looked vaguely familiar.

“Gray,” Stacey muttered in warning, yanking Gray backward with her.

“It’s alright.” Gray told her.

Her stomach dropped a fraction when Gray looked at the man before them, calm and unthreatened. “Hello, Hannibal.” Gray said.

Hannibal. She recognised the stranger before them as soon as she heard that name. Hannibal Lecter. This man wasn’t a mugger. He was a murderer. His serial killings had happened in a different state, but the hunt for Hannibal Lecter and ex-Special Agent Will Graham after their clifftop disappearance had been highly publicised some months ago. She remembered his face, pasted on her television screen.

And it suddenly dawned on her that she had seen Gray’s face shown beside Hannibal’s.

She broke away from Gray – Will Graham – by tugging her arm away from where she had had it looped through his. And then she turned to run.

Will Graham’s arm darted towards hers and snatched her wrist before she could move two steps.

She was swung back around and an arm closed about her throat. She scrabbled at the strong forearm with her nails, her legs kicking backward in an attempt to make an effective hit. She knew with overwhelming dread and panic that she was fighting for her life. But it became harder and harder to do so, when she ended up only being able to fight to keep her breath.

It was Hannibal’s arm locked around her, because she could see Will Graham in front of her through her increasingly glazed vision. He was watching with an unreadable expression on his face.

_"She will be your first catch, your first prize." Hannibal had told Will that morning; whispered it into his ear as they lay side by side in their bed. "She will be the first mouse to fall victim to your trap. The first sailor you seduce into the sea. You must learn to be a fisherman again by using yourself as the bait. And she? She is your prey."_

_Will had taken all that in in silence; let it linger in the soft warmth of the morning. "She will be my first catch." Will said slowly, testing the thought out in his mind, still addled from sleep. "But you're wrong, by the way." He turned his head on the pillow to find Hannibal watching him back, questioning. "She wouldn't be the first I took into the sea."_

_Hannibal frowned, but he accepted and pondered Will's reply, his fingers dancing up and down Will's bare arm, "No. She would not." Hannibal said eventually, his eyes wandering over Will's face, "But she will be the first you deceived there."_

_Of course, Will should have known that Hannibal would never be deceived anywhere. Hannibal was always one step ahead. Hannibal had known the possibilities of his fate as they had stood together, covered in blood on that clifftop. "Yes." Will agreed, "She would."_

Stacey had just enough time to recall how she had thought Gray would take her shitty day in a turn for a better and how fucking wrong she had been, before everything faded away.

***

Will had kept quiet as Hannibal had quickly and efficiently carried Stacey Flannigan’s body down the street and to the car he had parked at the end of it. The street was completely deserted, and there had been no security cameras on the route that Will and Stacey had taken – Hannibal had checked on that – so there was absolutely nobody to see Stacey succumb to Hannibal’s strength and pass out. There was nobody there to see her bundled into a car and driven away.

Will didn’t say much of anything as Hannibal drove them back to the house. He stared out of the window into the night and thought how miserable it was that there were few people that were even going to realise, or care, that Stacey was gone. Hannibal had done his research on her and picked her out of a number of potential candidates. Hannibal had reassured Will that Stacey was not a good person. She was essentially a thief; just without the need to sneak into someone’s house at night or swipe an expensive item from a shop. She was unafraid to use blackmail or seeing through her threats to get her way. She had made herself alone. And nobody would try too hard to look for her. For Will and Hannibal, that would be useful. Though, Will could not help but remember that there had been a great number of years in _his_ life in which he had isolated himself to the point where he would not have been missed by anyone; apart from his dogs, of course.

But Will had Hannibal now. And Hannibal appeared to care for him a great deal. To the point of obsession, a sane man could argue. But Will supposed he wasn’t amongst the so well-adjusted anymore.

He was not keeping silent because he was guilty for what he had done, and what he and Hannibal were in the process of doing. It was because he had been utterly taken aback by the thrill of it all. He had felt the faint buzz of it when they had visited Bedelia, and it had been singing in his veins on the clifftop with the Dragon (though the clifftop had also brought with it a mix of uncertainties and indecisions that had led to the dive off the cliff and fate's flip-of-the-coin decision on whether they would survive).  This time it was different. This time he had intended to catch this woman. He had intended to act as bait, to lure her in in the same way he would have done if he had been standing in waders in a river, with patience, a line, and a naïve, curious fish. He had led her into Hannibal’s trap. He had caught her when she had tried to run. He had watched Hannibal easily overpower her. And he felt it. He felt powerful. He felt in full force the thrill, the rush, of the hunt – or the fish – and the triumph in its success.

He understood now why Hannibal could not let it go. He understood why Hannibal had wanted him to see it all the way he did, to experience it with him. He also understood exactly what had tempted him into agreeing to join Hannibal in his hunts in the first place.

But he also knew that the hunt would require him to follow through with the kill. And that was something else entirely.

His internal debate was cut short when Hannibal let go of the steering wheel and reached across to take one of Will’s hands, where Will had them curled together in his lap. Hannibal lifted the hand to his mouth, brushing his lips over the bumps of Will’s knuckles.

Will looked to Hannibal to find Hannibal watching him, his dark eyes glinting in the glow from the headlights. Hannibal was clearly trying to figure out what was going on in Will’s head; something which Will was sure often frustrated him, and still intrigued him.

Will smiled at him in reassurance, which also seemed absurd when the woman Hannibal had not long choked to unconsciousness was lying in the trunk of the car, but Hannibal smiled back; a grin that revealed his sharp teeth. Hannibal was riding that same high, Will could see that. Will was sure that one day he would learn to enjoy it as much as Hannibal did; his empathy could pick up on it leaving Hannibal in ecstatic waves, even now. He just hoped it would help him when it came to ending Stacey’s life permanently.

It did not, as he found out half an hour later, help in the slightest.

Stacey was tied to a chair in front of Will. She was conscious again, and she was screaming and pleading against the gag in her mouth.

Will had a knife in his hand.

And he couldn’t do it.

The only times Will had killed before had been when his or another person’s life had been in danger. Stacey wasn’t a threat to him. She couldn’t even move. And she wouldn’t stop that muffled screaming.

“Will.” Hannibal repeated his name for the fourth time; with a little less patience and a little more authority than the ones previous. He had asked Will to make the final kill.

It was a test, Will knew, to see if Will would actually follow through with the act, and truly become Hannibal’s partner in the hunt. A few months ago, Will would have outright refused. But now? Now Will possessed a great urge to prove his worth and his loyalty to Hannibal. He wanted Hannibal to be proud of him, and to see him as a worthy partner. But Will was still, to many extents, that same man that was so afraid of becoming one of the killers he helped to expose that he went to a psychiatrist – the idea of which he initially feared and despised – in an attempt to save him from that fate (and how swimmingly that had turned out, thanks to Alana and Jack’s choice of psychiatrist). The Will that saw through the eyes of killers, but was determined not to let himself become one, was finding it very hard to kill someone who was not an immediate threat.

“I can’t.” Will clenched his hand tight around the handle of the knife, shifting his feet and shaking his head. “She isn’t…she looks…”

“Will.” Hannibal snapped, sharp and determined. “There is no resemblance. You met her, you spoke to her. Is she really anything at all like Alana Bloom?”

“No.” From what Will had gathered from Stacey Flannigan over the few hours he had spoken to her, she was self-obsessed, vain, and unsympathetic to anything but her own woes, for which she was inflicting further woe on others. She was nothing at all like Alana Bloom. And yet Hannibal himself had chosen Stacey because she bore a resemblance to Alana; Will’s friend and someone whom he had once hoped to have something more with, (and Hannibal’s former lover, he reminded himself). Will fumbled his response, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth and his pulse still spiking with the thrill and fear of it all. “But she looks so similar. I…” He shook his head again. He gripped the knife and took a step forward. Stacey’s muffled sobs and screams intensified. Will looked at her, imagined lunging forward and slashing with his knife just like he had done to Francis Dolarhyde. His hand starting shaking. “I can’t.” The admittance came out pathetic and small.

Will jerked his gaze nervously to Hannibal, afraid of what he would see there. He did not want to see Hannibal’s disappointment. His disapproval. His anger.

He was taken aback when Hannibal appeared to be none of those things. In fact, he almost looked understanding.

Will remained frozen in place, caught in his confusion. “Hannibal, I…”

His apologies and excuses were abruptly halted when he saw Hannibal shake his head. “It’s quite alright, Will.” Hannibal said, and he sounded genuine.

Will did not know to what extent it was really ‘alright’, but Hannibal was approaching him, and the next thing Will knew, Hannibal was gently prising the knife out of his hand.

Hannibal ducked his head close to Will’s, “Would you like me to do this deed for you, darling?”

The pet name surprised Will a great deal. Hannibal and Will’s intimate relationship was still new, and the use of such names had been used rarely so far by Hannibal, and not at all by Will. Will was still finding it new to refer the pair of them as ‘us’ and ‘we’. But maybe Hannibal intended it to surprise Will, because it did, and it allowed Hannibal to take the knife and step back all whilst Will was still dumbstruck.

It also startled a “Yes.” out of Will, which had Hannibal smirking knowingly at him. Will could not guess if it was because Hannibal was pleased that Will was relying on him to get the hunt finished, or that Will had responded so quickly to the ‘darling’ bestowed upon him.

“I will make it quick.” Hannibal said, “If that will make it less painful for you.”

It should have been morbidly amusing, that Hannibal was talking to Will when he said this, and not the woman he was about to kill, but Will was not laughing. He was holding his breath.

He did not look away whilst Hannibal walked toward the screaming and struggling woman. He did not blink when Hannibal, unceremoniously but precisely, stabbed her in the heart. It only required one thrust of the knife, and Hannibal had clearly already decided what cuts of meat he wanted from her, to have gone for the heart.

Though, he could have been avoiding her throat and stomach in order to save Will from flashbacks of himself and Abigail lying on the white, pristine floor of Hannibal’s Baltimore kitchen, in a growing pool of scarlet.

The rush Will had been experiencing earlier unexpectedly hit him again with great force. He watched Hannibal watch the blood begin to pulse and seep down Stacey’s chest, as her eyes went blank and her head fell forward.

Hannibal turned to look at Will, and Will could almost feel that same energy filling Hannibal’s veins. Hannibal’s eyes were black.

“Hannibal.” Will said into the fresh quiet that had descended over the room, a moment before Hannibal was striding across the basement floor and gathering Will up in his arms. Hannibal kissed him, hot and open and full of that thrill that buzzed into and intensified what was already rushing in Will’s veins.

Will kissed Hannibal back, urgent and desperate, his lips parting under Hannibal’s and allowing Hannibal to assert dominance; the entire length of their bodies pressed together, with Hannibal’s arms holding him precisely where he wanted him, whilst his tongue plundered Will’s mouth.

“Will,” Hannibal broke away, his hand came up, and the backs of his fingers traced gently down the side of Will’s face.  His pupils were blown and Will could feel Hannibal’s heart thumping.

“I’m sorry,” Will said, worriedly, “I’m sorry I couldn’t do it, I promise that I…”

Hannibal hushed him and pressed a kiss to Will’s cheekbone, “You did so well. You set the trap, you baited and you succeeded. You did everything right, Will. The instinct is not ingrained in you yet, it is early days. We will get you to the point where you can enjoy the hunt in its entirety. I am sure of that.”

“In its entirety.” Will repeated, his eyes meeting Hannibal's, “Like you do.”

Hannibal looked back at him fondly, “Like I do. But this experience is new to me also, having someone to share this with. To share the rush with.” Hannibal’s voice was breathy, and it was strange to hear Hannibal ill-composed about his art; the ecstasy he was feeling was bleeding through. “You caught her truly, Will Graham.” Hannibal pulled away, and his fingers drew up and back along the gelled hair on Will’s head. Will never had his hair gelled and it had felt strange all evening, but Hannibal was looking at Will’s appearance now, his eyes hot and intrigued. Will had not missed how Hannibal’s eyes had roamed over him earlier as he had dressed Will up in his specially bought leathers. “She was powerless to you,” Hannibal growled, pulling Will in again suddenly by grabbing hold of his leather jacket, “But she did not realise that you are mine.”

“Hannibal,” Will groaned, leaning up to kiss Hannibal again, but Hannibal pulled back out of his reach, keeping Will still by his firm hold on his jacket.

“Would you like to take a break upstairs?” Hannibal asked, his question heated and betraying his arousal. But Will could detect concern there too. Concern for Will. “The meat does not have to be dealt with immediately.”

Will did not think Hannibal had quite realised that he was putting Will before the hunt, possibly for the first time ever.

It made him wonder which of Hannibal’s passions - Hannibal’s obsessions - were priority to him now. But then he supposed, Hannibal was only one step away from having both. All Will would have to do was to complete one whole hunt, and Hannibal would have both.

There would be no further need for choices.

***

 

Will woke that night plagued by nightmares of the Dragon. His shoulder blades ached from the fictional memory of large, leathery wings sprouting from them and spreading outward. His skull ached from the antlers that had cracked through and reached up towards the sky. The claws on Will’s fingers had been dripping with blood. Will had taken another step towards a final transformation that day, by luring in Stacey Flannigan, and his subconscious, confused by dragons and stags and fireflies and mushrooms and bees, was trying to form an image of what Will’s final transformation might be. It was a painful tug-of-war between all the terrible beings that had made a home in Will’s fragile state of mind.

He slid out of bed, successful in his attempt not to wake Hannibal, and slipped his thin robe over his naked body. He did not know where he was going; he just knew he needed to clear his head.

He came back to himself three hours later, and by that time Hannibal had found him.

Will was sitting in a corner of the kitchen, back pressed up against the cool surface of the fridge door, where pieces of Stacey Flannigan were keeping chilled. He had been sitting with his knees curled up to his chest, staring absently ahead. He had been so busy at war with himself, and at war with the demons in his head, that he had not noticed the time pass, nor heard Hannibal approach until the man was standing before him, wearing only striped pyjama pants that he must have pulled on after realising Will was no longer asleep beside him.

Will blinked out of his stupor and glanced up at Hannibal. Hannibal stared down at him.

“I thought for a moment you had gone.” Hannibal confessed in the semi-darkness. His tone did not betray any emotion, but Will knew that it had been a silent concern of Hannibal’s since their fall; that one day Will would take fright and that his conscience would win, and that he would try to run. To escape.

Hannibal clearly still did not have trust in Will’s loyalty to him. His need for him.

Will shook his head. He did not want to escape from Hannibal. He did not want to leave him. Not anymore.

Hannibal sighed, and sat himself down on the kitchen floor beside Will, pressed against his side. It was one of the most undignified things Will had seen Hannibal do in a long time.

“You wouldn’t do that to me, though, would you?” Hannibal said to him in the quiet. “Not after everything we have been through, you and I?”

“No.” Will answered honestly. He noticed the possessive nature of Hannibal’s questions, but he felt too tired to vocally challenge them right at that moment, “I would never do that to you.”

They sat in silence for a little while, before Will found his voice again, “I don’t want to disappoint you. I didn’t want to today.”

“You could never be a disappointment to me, Will.” Hannibal told him.

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do.” Hannibal said, “You underestimate my faith in you.”

“That is a bold thing to say.” Will commented tiredly, “I barely have faith in myself, sometimes.”

Hannibal’s arm circled Will’s shoulders, and he pressed a kiss to Will’s hair. “I aim to change that.” Hannibal promised into Will’s hair.

As the pair of them sat together in companionable silence on the kitchen floor in the dark, with Hannibal’s warm body beside him, Will thought that maybe, just maybe, he might just let Hannibal try.

***

Will had been dreading the first meal which would include meat won from a hunt. When they had visited Bedelia, he had picked at the perfectly cooked pieces of meat that had come from her leg, but he had barely eaten any. This was different. This was going to be the first of many meals, and Hannibal would expect him to eat a full plate. Hannibal had let the occasion with Bedelia slide because that night had been about spiting Bedelia, not accustoming Will.

Hannibal had been in the kitchen for several hours preparing the food, and Will would feel terrible, and would be crazy, to refuse anything Hannibal made him.

Will had been loitering around the kitchen door all afternoon, an excuse and an apology ready on his tongue, but he had not dared.

Hannibal had spotted him of course. He had glanced up at one point from where he was dicing shallots with complete care and precision. Will watched Hannibal raise his eyebrow.

“Are you going to come in, Will?” Hannibal asked, his gaze focused on his work.

Will edged into the kitchen. Still he did not say anything.

“I know what you are worried about.” Hannibal commented, tilting the chopping board and tipping the shallots into the large bowl beside him. “And I want you to know that there is nothing to concern yourself about.”

Will stalled, mouth opening and closing. He knew that the first meat Hannibal had taken from Stacey was on Hannibal’s menu for the evening. Why would Will not concern himself with that, just a little?

“Ok.” Will said. He found himself unable to argue, and before he could say anything that he would later regret, he turned and left the kitchen.

Later that evening, Will was seated at the table and waiting with a twisting stomach for Hannibal to emerge from the kitchen.

Hannibal finally arrived in the dining room, dressed smartly in a deep purple shirt and dark suit trousers. With his usual flourishing ease, Hannibal swept the plates in his hands down and placed them neatly on the table.

“Beef tenderloin.” Hannibal announced, “A simple recipe, but a delicious one; roasted tenderloin in a rosemary, wine and chocolate sauce.”

Will started. He looked down at the plate, at the delicious food. He looked at the meat, and instead of imagining Stacey Flannigan, he saw exactly what Hannibal described; a piece of meat that look just like a rare roasted beef, with a rich sauce. He looked up at Hannibal and Hannibal was watching him expectantly.

“Thank you.” Will said, at a loss for words.

Hannibal smiled and took his seat.

“Tenderloin is such a versatile cut.” Hannibal went on, straightening his napkin onto his knee. “This cut is called ‘filet mignon’, which translates as ‘dainty fillet’ or ‘tender fillet’ in French; quite a delicious cut of beef. It was one I thought you would appreciate.”

Will mirrored Hannibal’s movement and placed his own napkin on his knee, smoothing out the creases over and over again as he tried to understand Hannibal’s motive. The only conclusion he came to was that Hannibal was trying to help him forget that he would be eating human meat, by using the elaborate pretence of it being another form of meat. It was like Hannibal had done for years; deceiving his dinner guests with discussion of beef and pork and rabbit, whilst they ate parts of the people whose faces they had seen on the news. Parts of the people they had been trying to find the killer of.

Will blinked at his plate once more, but because Hannibal said it was beef tenderloin, it was all Will wanted to imagine. It was all he saw on his plate.

He looked up at Hannibal and felt a genuine smile grace his face. “I do appreciate it.” He said, and he meant it. Hannibal had saved him from facing reality, for a little bit longer at least. They would pretend that Will wasn’t eating people, just as he hadn’t yet performed a full hunt, but he assumed that Hannibal intended get him used to both over time.

He never thought he would be grateful to a cannibal, for easing him into cannibalism. No sane person would. But Will had experienced stranger things.

He picked up his knife and fork and cut a small piece of the filet mignon. He was not hesitant in lifting the fork to his mouth. The moment the sauce-covered meat hit his tongue, the flavours exploded in his mouth. It tasted wonderful.

Will closed his eyes, and despite himself, gave an appreciative hum. It tasted just like beef. Beef tenderloin.

When he opened his eyes, Hannibal was watching him, pleased and hungry himself, taking a delicate bite of his own food with a knowing smile. “How do you find it?”

“Delicious.” Will told him, smiling at him and seeing Hannibal’s eyes soften in response. “Thank you, Hannibal.”

Will cleared his plate.

Hannibal took it away with a smile.

He helped Hannibal wash up the dishes, which had been used to cook the meat taken from Stacey Flannigan; Hannibal and Will’s first intentional victim.

He helped his cannibalistic serial killer tidy the dishes away, before taking the same cannibalistic serial killer to bed.

But then, after that first hunt, Will supposed, he was a burgeoning cannibalistic serial killer himself.

There would be occasions where Will would stop and be abruptly confronted with his inner turmoil over that fact, but as Hannibal devotedly removed his clothes, and laid him down on the bed, kissing his way across Will’s chest, Will did not choose to linger over the matter for long that night. He had better things to think about.


	2. Chapter 2

There was an unconscious man lying on their kitchen counter.

Will was staring at him.

And Hannibal, Hannibal was staring at Will. Because for all that Hannibal had wondered of late how much more Will’s intriguing mind could truly surprise him, the younger man continued to be absolutely fascinating. He was even more so now that he was allowing Hannibal to show him how to hunt; how to be a predator.

Their first hunt as a partnership had been a slight disappointment; Hannibal’s test of Will’s loyalty by choosing a woman that looked more than a little like Alana Bloom had possibly not been his best decision. Will had panicked and floundered at the crucial moment, after having played the role of tempting bait so very well; dressed up in his leathers, his hair slicked back and his chiselled face effortlessly drawing in the spellbound woman.

Hannibal wanted nothing more than to see Will kill a human being again. And his want to see Will draw blood had to take precedent over any future tests Hannibal wished to construct for him.

So this time, Hannibal had chosen carefully, and he had chosen well.

Will was not going to find killing this man difficult. In fact, it was going to be easy for him.

The man, Conrad Hempstead, was shirtless where he lay before them, his head lolling uselessly to one side. His eyes were closed.

Conrad Hempstead did not look like anyone Will had known. Hannibal had made sure of that to avoid his errors of the previous mishap. Conrad was not going to be missed by anyone because he did not deserve to be missed.

Two years and four months earlier, Conrad Hempstead had stood up in court accused of the rape of four different women. Overwhelming evidence proved he was guilty. Strings must have been pulled somewhere, money into the right pockets, bribes into the correct hands, because Conrad Hempstead was found ‘not guilty’ and walked free. But oh, he was so very guilty.

Hannibal watched with some amusement as Will attempted to feel some semblance of sympathy as he stared at the man. But he could see Will was failing. Will was failing, because all he had to do was use an ounce of his empathy to be able to understand that this man deserved no sympathy.

Hannibal had shown Will all of information of the case against Hempstead that the internet could provide. Will had watched the man walk around town a few days before they had ambushed him in the alley he had been lurking in, awaiting his newest victim. Will had felt it all; the man’s intentions, the man’s feelings, his urges, his motives, his desires.

Hannibal could understand exactly what Will was feeling now, in the close proximity of the serial rapist before him. Will was obviously attempting to block his insight into the workings of the man’s mind. He was attempting to block them because he did not want to know what those thoughts felt like, but it was difficult for him to avoid it.

Hannibal watched Will’s head jerk to the side, and then he rolled it back, slow and uncomfortable as he attempted to keep Conrad Hempstead out of his head. Hannibal watched with focused curiosity as Will’s fingers flexed, curling up then loosening, up then loose, again and again, a constant, silent drumming against the palms of Will’s hands.

“He’s guilty.” Will sounded pained, eyes closing against whatever it was that he was experiencing. “I can feel the power he felt and I…” Will shook his head abruptly, presumably in an attempt to try and shake those thoughts loose. “He’s guilty.”

“Of course he is.” Hannibal kept his voice level and matter of fact, a calming influence over Will’s moment of distraction. “Two of those women are of the exact age that Abigail would be now if she were alive.”

Will visibly winced at that, like Hannibal’s words physically wounded him.

“Do you think he should be free to do it to others?” Hannibal asked him.

Will, still caught up in whatever projections he was unwillingly drawing from the man, took a small step back toward Hannibal, who was standing behind him, “No.”

“Then the matter is quite simple, is it not?” Hannibal stepped forward to meet Will’s retreat and pressed up behind him. He placed a blade into Will’s hand. “Won’t you show me how you are going to stop him from doing that again?”

“What? From hurting people like Abigail?” Will questioned, tone light and sizzling in danger, as Hannibal suddenly became aware that the blade in Will’s hand had been swung back to press against a vulnerable spot of Hannibal’s thigh, that if stabbed, would have Hannibal bleeding out within moments. “I could stop _you_ from doing it again.”

Hannibal froze, momentarily unsure as to whether Will was bluffing, but ready to overpower him if need be, to stall and subdue any moment of desperate lunacy Will was experiencing.

“Did I just best the Chesapeake Ripper?” Will murmured, a quiet undercurrent of laughter in his voice.

Hannibal relaxed abruptly with a chuckle, and wrapped his arms tighter around Will, pulling him backwards into his body, pleased at how quickly Will averted the knife to avoid actually harming him. “It would not be the first time,” Hannibal commented into Will’s hair.

Will semi-shrugged under the trap of Hannibal’s arms, “Not many could boast that.”

“No, not many,” Hannibal agreed, “But I would consider you the success story.”

Will hummed doubtfully, “But you are free, doing what you have always done, and have gained me as sidekick? How is that me being successful?”

“You made me change my priorities,” which was a bit of an understatement, if Hannibal were being truly honest. Hannibal’s fear of losing Will had led to three years’ incarceration, after all, just waiting for the day Will would be pulled back to him again.

Will shifted again and appeared sceptical. “There is a man lying there about to be killed. You have managed to balance your priorities, you don’t favour one.”

Hannibal released a breathy laugh into Will’s hair, breathing in the smell of him; the varied scents of wildness that he had always enjoyed picking up on Will, when it hadn’t been drowned in that hideous aftershave. Hannibal was thankful that Will lived with him now, so that that aftershave would never tarnish Will’s presence ever again.

“Do not be so certain.” Hannibal smiled despite himself. It was difficult not to be pleased at what he had achieved, of what he had gained, in showing Will the better way, the way Will was born to be. It was difficult to mask his delight at having Will with him at all times, to have his companionship and his love and his trust; something Hannibal had yearned for, for many years.

Hannibal altered his grip on Will so that he held his wrists, walking them both forwards towards the prone form of Conrad Hempstead.

“And you sell yourself far short,” Hannibal added, “Sidekick? No. I will not accept that. You are my partner, in all things.”

“Partner,” Will repeated, as though testing it. “Your partner in crime, then?”

“If you like,” Hannibal replied as they reached the side of the table.

Will was staring at the man again, frozen against Hannibal; rigid and seemingly unwilling once again.

“I don’t…” Will started.

“I had hoped that we would not have a repeat of last time,” Hannibal sighed, “This man is clearly guilty and I ensured that you…”

“Wait,” Will interrupted. His wrists twisted in Hannibal’s loose grip. “That’s not what I meant. I just don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to go from here.”

Hannibal paused, surprised, and kept his answering smile to himself. “Yes you do,” he reassured, wrapping his fingers a little tighter around Will’s wrists to still them, and the knife with them. “You have done this before.”

“Whilst fighting for my life.”

“And now you do not have to, so you can be more precise, and take your time, if you wish to.”

“That’s why I don’t know how to do it,” Will said, sounding frustrated, “I’m not fighting for my life. I’m not acting on instinct. The darkness I sometimes feel…it’s…it’s not there, I can’t feel it right now and…”

Hannibal was concerned that Will was talking himself out of it, scaring himself; the Will of five years ago clawing to the surface in a fragile frantic mania, scrabbling for what he thought was his humanity. Pleading for it. Hannibal was not going to give it to him. He had played his games with Will of old. This Will was new, and transforming, and Hannibal was going to nurture him, not let him shrink back to the shadows of his self-doubt.

“Did you not say that you could feel how that man thinks? What he is?”

“That’s not the same darkness. It’s not mine, that’s his.” Will jerked his head accusingly at the man on the table.

“But you enjoyed the hunt? You enjoyed taking down this man after knowing precisely what he is? Didn’t you?”

“I did,” Will replied immediately, and Hannibal felt him shudder lightly against him.

Hannibal had seen it in Will’s eyes; the thrill of it, dark and full of fire. Will had enjoyed catching this man; tracking him down to where he lurked in the alley and bringing him down. Will was stalling at the crucial moment again, when it really mattered, but Hannibal supposed that he could understand why. Will felt he had something to hold on to, an ingrained part of himself that had vowed never to become this. This would be a final step in dashing that old part of himself away. Another stage in a transformation Will had so long fought against.

“I think you are misunderstanding me,” Will said.

Hannibal waited in silence, surprised at being stated incorrect, but in anticipation of what Will would say. He was rewarded for his patience. So very rewarded.

“I need a little guidance.”

Hannibal smiled again, the grin quirking his lips up before he could stop himself. He pressed a firm kiss to Will’s neck. “I can most certainly do that for you, William.”

Hannibal pressed forward just a little more, to in turn push Will’s hips against the table before them.

“Let me show you how,” Hannibal murmured in Will’s ear, and heard the smaller man gasp, watched that curled head nod in agreement.

Hannibal steadied Will’s hands and lifted them, tightening his grip around where Will’s fingers held the handle of the blade. He moved Will’s hand out to hover over Conrad Hempstead’s chest, and then brought it down.

Elegant strokes and precise lines the knife glided, flesh parting and blood blossoming, Hannibal moved Will’s hands in their task. Conrad Hempstead came conscious briefly – only briefly – and Hannibal made sure to promptly stop him so as to not ruin this moment. Hannibal had long played puppeteer for his Will Graham, winding him up and pulling his strings and watching him stumble and clatter in a desperate attempt to remain together, struggling with reality and the show Hannibal was making just for him, performing for his eyes. But Hannibal had only played the role of puppeteer back then, now he was acting as one. Physically manhandling Will as though he were just an instrument or toy was new and thrilling.

Will was surprisingly pliant in his grip, and for all Hannibal could interpret, staring with rapt attention at the movement of their hands and the movement of the knife. He was relaxed into Hannibal’s broader body, and Hannibal’s arms were tight around him as support as he guided Will’s hands.

He whispered instructions into Will’s ear and explained the reasoning behind every incision, teaching him which spot would kill a man and which would not, which would kill a man slowly, how to retrieve an organ without ruining what flavours it could produce. His movements were slow and deliberate. Hannibal may or may not have made a couple of cuts with the sole intent of spraying them both with a shower of blood, but had a quick explanation as to why those cuts were necessary. The truth was that they were not at all necessary, for his teaching at least. It was highly necessary, however, for ensuring that his boy was as covered in scarlet as Hannibal could possibly make him.

Hannibal was not in the least embarrassed in admitting that Will was never more beautiful than when he was covered in blood (the blood of others, of course, rather than Will’s own, despite Hannibal’s previous enjoyment of Will’s suffering) and any opportunity he had been able to observe this remarkable sight had been some of the most breath-taking masterpieces Hannibal had ever seen, and he had seen many beautiful works of art in his lifetime.

He urged Will’s hands out to carefully extract the kidneys and the liver, watched Will cup them in bloodied, slender hands.

When all was done and the cuts of meat and organs carefully stored, Hannibal stepped back to view his work of art. Not the body on the table, no. His most revered of works.

Will stood before him, covered in blood. His dark pants hid the scarlet stains, but the white shirt that Hannibal had purposefully dressed him in was sodden; blood coated his hands and arms up to the rolled sleeves at his elbows, and his face was spattered with dots of the brightest red.

Will faced him and held his arms out, and although Will seemed irritated, Hannibal gave more attention to the way the movement made the blood-wet shirt stick to the lines of his body, “Firstly, it was you that suggested I not get changed, or wear protective clothing for this, so the mess is not my fault. Secondly, you were guiding my hands, so again I do not take the blame for…” Will halted, eyes searching Hannibal’s face calculatingly, presumably seeing the devoted awe that Hannibal was experiencing, and not attempting to hide.  “Oh,” Will said belatedly, blinking in a manner of momentary confusion which Hannibal found most endearing. But then his eyes narrowed a fraction, that element of danger changing his demeanour in a matter of seconds, “You meant to do that.”

Hannibal smiled, attempting to be sheepish but failing, because he genuinely could not be happier with how the evening was panning out, guided all the while by his hands. Will was a most temperamental tutee, which for the most part made these hunts all the more fresh and exciting for Hannibal, but the fact that Hannibal was often able to sway Will’s moods was also utterly rewarding.

“I admit that I was purposefully a little careless.”

“Uh-huh.” Will eyed him judgingly, rubbing his blood soaked hand up and down his opposite forearm, which was equally scarlet. “Well I am going to shower, now,” Will’s words were chosen slowly, carefully, “If we are done here.”

Will made to walk away and Hannibal knew that Will was testing him, seeing if Hannibal would follow and work for Will’s attention, as he had been wont to do of late, much to Hannibal’s chagrin. Hannibal sidestepped in front of Will, and Will’s answering, knowing quirk of his lips was evident, and whilst Hannibal often found himself irritated that his desire for Will was too blatant in these instances, he could not bring himself to be at all self-berating of his actions at that moment in time. Not when Will was smiling like he had wanted Hannibal to stall him all along.

“We aren’t quite done here,” Hannibal decided to inform him, lifting a finger to thoughtfully trail it down through the blood spatters on Will’s unscarred cheek.

“Aren’t we?” Will asked, his innocent question tarnished by his obvious amusement. “But I will get blood over everything if I don’t shower.”

“I think we can avoid you getting it on everything.” Hannibal watched him with bold intention, and Will’s gaze flickered away from Hannibal’s like even he, despite his bold teasing, could not handle the intensity in Hannibal’s stare. “Not if we confine it to the bed, surely?”

“I will get it all over you.” Will warned, his smile growing a little more.

“Oh, dear William,” Hannibal grinned, withdrawing his fingertip from Will’s face and placing it between his own lips. The taste of fresh blood burst over his tongue, and the way that Will’s eyes fixed upon Hannibal’s mouth intensified the quiet arousal that had been building in Hannibal. “You know I don’t mind that,” he finished, having licked his finger clean.

Will’s breath had shallowed a little, and his gaze – blue eyes surrounded by blood spray – travelled quickly over Hannibal’s face, darting down his body. Hannibal could not help but grin triumphantly to himself; oh, how Will’s attraction to Hannibal had grown and revealed itself since their fall from the cliff. How Will could hardly contain it now.

And Will was standing in his blood stained shirt and his blood-spattered skin, dark and dangerous and outstandingly beautiful, and Hannibal was little surprised that his need for Will had become as addictive as this. He had seen Will’s beauty, his potential, for many years before their intimate relationship, and even now that he had him, he often felt that he only wanted Will Graham more. He wanted the most of Will Graham that he could possibly get. He wanted to consume him and keep him and encourage him.

He intended to do all of those things that night.

Hannibal eyed Will, hungrily taking in his painted appearance, before turning to leave the room in silence. The bedroom was his destination, and by leaving the room first, Hannibal knew that Will would be the one forced to follow at heel, and hot on them too.

There came the sense of power Hannibal always felt when Will did as he was told, or followed when he was supposed to, or did as he had done that night and allowed Hannibal to physically manipulate and control his actions. It was a sense of power that Hannibal delighted in, and hoped that he would never tire of. He was not sure what would happen if the day came that he did tire of it, and he hoped that Will would do as he had always done, and keep on surprising him, so that he would never have to find out.

The fleeting thought of losing Will to a future boredom or changing interest or whim concerned Hannibal more than it probably should have done. The thought offended him, now that he had Will as a partner in life and in the hunt. He was unsure whether he would enjoy so much being alone again now that he had had a taste of this. He distracted himself from such thoughts by tasting Will, instead.

The moment that Will joined him in the bedroom, Hannibal stepped close to him, tugging him in by his bloody shirt, and leant in to kiss the corner of Will’s mouth, tasting the blood and Will’s skin, before moving to his lips. He kissed Will deeply, commanding him by wrapping his arm around Will’s waist and pressing the smaller man to him entirely, uncaring that the tacky blood transferred more fully to his own clothes. Will submitted with a sigh, lips parting, eyes closed, his hands coming up to grasp Hannibal’s upper arms.

Hannibal hummed, pleased, using his free hand to cup and angle Will’s face, running his thumb along the scar on Will’s cheek, drawing the blood laid there into matching streaked lines.

“Do I taste good, Hannibal?” Will asked when they parted, panting a little, and Hannibal watched him closely, feeling that hunger for Will that thrived inside of him grow stronger still. “I think you must think that blood suits me.”

“You know that it does,” Hannibal did not deny it. He spoke quietly, his voice breathy and thick between them, “You know how I used to sketch you, with my pencils, and yet I would see shades of red, and then I was compelled to paint you, to cover you in the charcoals and blood reds that so become you, Will. It becomes you so very well.”

He was surprised when Will grinned at him; the spots of blood on his face smeared, and his teeth stood out starkly white against it. “I suppose I am truly your masterpiece now that you have painted me on paper and painted me on skin.”

Will, was in fact, still a work in progress. Hannibal knew that Will needed to accept the hunt and its following ceremony in fullness before he could properly flourish; a finished Will Graham, a transformed and true masterpiece of their making. Hannibal knew that Will still dreamed of stags and dragons and mushrooms and cellos and collages of skin and honeycombs and all the killers that Will had encountered, and that they all fought for his loyalty in his head. He would surely become a little bit of all of them, but most closely to Hannibal’s design. And Will’s own design; a wolfish, quietly dangerous killer, coiled with instinct and cunning and will to survive.

In the meantime, however, he was a physical portrait for Hannibal’s eyes, bathed in the blood reds Hannibal had always painted him in. And Hannibal had always been accurate in his depictions. Will was truly beautiful. He had seen hints of it on many occasions before that night of course, even on their first case for Jack Crawford he had seen Will’s face and glasses spattered in Abigail Hobbs’ blood. He supposed that that was when he had gotten the taste for it, all those years ago. Now, however, it was designed for Hannibal’s pleasure and that alone, and Hannibal was able to actually taste it for himself.

“You are the most stunning of portraits, Will,” Hannibal told him, and told him truthfully. He loosened his arm around Will’s waist and moved back a little, to further admire the man before him. “May I see more of you?”

Will nodded, and yet automatically his hands came in front of him to clasp together awkwardly, still that slight issue in self-confidence that Hannibal was gradually assisting to remedy.

Hannibal raised an eyebrow, “Was that a yes, or a no?”

Will unclasped his hands, “Sorry, it was yes.”

Hannibal leant in and took Will’s curled fists in his hands, as he bent his head to press a kiss to Will’s exposed collar bone. He then let go of Will, and raised his hands to begin undoing the buttons of Will’s white shirt.

He made short work of the shirt and dropped it to the floor, trailing his kisses from one shoulder to the other. Once the shirt was gone, Hannibal was able to see Will’s paler skin, unblemished by the sun and the blood of their victim. He could see the abrupt lines where the shirt had protected Will’s skin from the spatters; there was a distinct line on Will’s collarbones and at Will’s elbows, where clean expanses of skin suddenly met scarlet colouring.

Will’s bloodstained hands then returned the favour. Hannibal watched Will’s hands as they slowly unbuttoned Hannibal’s shirt, and observed with some fascination how Will purposefully trailed blood over Hannibal’s chest as it was exposed, and down Hannibal’s stomach, and then across Hannibal’s shoulders as Will slipped it off him. Once Hannibal was bared to him, Will pressed an open palm on one of Hannibal’s pectoral muscles, leaving a handprint in its place.

Hannibal hardened, flicking his gaze between Will’s ministrations and the distracted concentration on Will’s face. It was the most fascinating thing to observe.

“Will,” Hannibal prompted finally, breaking Will’s elsewhere attention, and Hannibal was surprised at how rough his voice had become.

Will smiled up at him, a little lopsided and kissed him, dragging his bloody hand down Hannibal’s chest and stomach and working his fingers down a little way into the top of Hannibal’s suit trousers.

Hannibal grinned, baring his teeth. He liked Will bold in these moments. He liked to see Will’s want for him. But then, he was little better, he found it difficult to hide his devotion to Will Graham.

Hannibal allowed Will to undo his trousers, as he unbuckled Will’s belt. Before too long, Will was bared to him completely. Will was still clean everywhere except for his face, neck, arms and hands, until he stepped back from Hannibal and absently dragged a hand across his own chest, leaving a smear of blood between his nipples in its wake. Hannibal took that as invitation.

He pushed Will back onto the bed, laying him out and following that smear of blood from one nipple to the next, as Will writhed and panted beneath him.

It took a little longer for Will to plead.

Will was grasping at the cream bedsheets and staining them a rusty maroon as the blood dried on him. He was a mess; a beautiful mess, sweaty and bloody and so very close to perfection. Hannibal felt a renewed surge of love for him.

“Hannibal, please,” Will begged, reaching up with two tacky hands to drag them through Hannibal’s fair hair, knocking it down into Hannibal’s eyes. “Don’t tease me.”

“But you so enjoy teasing me,” Hannibal countered.

“Hannibal…” Will whined again, desperate and pleading, “Please.”

Hannibal feigned thinking about it. “Since you asked so nicely,” He allowed, lowering himself to give Will a swift kiss, before leaning away to pick up the bottle they kept on the bedside table. He ensured that his fingers were clean and free of blood before coating them in lubrication.

In the moments when Hannibal pressed his fingers into Will, working him open slowly and steadily, Hannibal liked to watch Will’s reactions closely. Will had at first, when they had first started having sex, seemed surprised that Hannibal could be like this, so patient and so gentle and careful, but he had since learned that this was what Hannibal preferred. Hannibal was yet to have Will rough and fast, and although he was certain he would experience it one day, as he also hoped that he would one day experience Will filling _him_ in every way possible, he was willing to wait until the opportunities presented themselves and Will appeared ready for them. In all other aspects of Hannibal’s life with Will, Hannibal wanted to test Will and push him to his limit and see him adapt, but in the bedroom his attention was focused on the pleasure of it, the enjoyment, there was no pushing here until he knew Will was ready.

He watched Will’s face. How Will’s eyes closed despite themselves, and he bit his lip in an attempt to stifle his noises, but them escaping unbidden through his teeth anyway. How Will tilted his head back, the tendons in his neck sharpening under thin skin, his adam’s apple working. Hannibal was fascinated by how Will’s jaw worked noiselessly at the moments when Hannibal curled his fingers and brushed the correct spot, his forehead creasing with the intensity of it. Today all these movements were enhanced by the blood on Will’s face; the scarlet rippled as Will’s jawbone move and as he swallowed, the drying spots cracking as Will frowned and gasped. His eyelids were still their pale white, having been the only part of Will’s face not spotted with blood. Oh, he was truly beautiful. And he was Hannibal’s. As Hannibal was his. Completely and utterly his.

Will finally began to become overwhelmed, his cock curved hard and tempting for Hannibal’s hand and mouth, but tonight he had other aims in mind. “Hannibal, I’m not going to last,” Will warned, his voice nearly lost to a moan.

Hannibal took that as cue to remove his fingers and prepare himself to enter Will. He pushed in in one, slow movement until he was buried deep inside Will, and he held himself over him, looking down at his face as they panted through the adjustment.

“Move,” Will finally breathed out, hands coming up to the backs of Hannibal’s straining thighs, “Move, Hannibal.”

Hannibal did not need further encouragement. He kept his thrusts fluid and rolling, the way Will preferred, and Will wrapped his legs tight around him, head thrown back, eyelids fluttering, and his skin covered in a sparkling sheen of sweat and blood.

Hannibal kept himself hovered over Will, but before long dipped his head to taste the moistures that shone along Will’s collar bones and in the curve of his neck. He mouthed openly along the ridges of bone and tendon, dragging with his teeth and hearing Will moan right into his ear, blunted nails scraping down his back.

“Hannibal,” Will groaned suddenly, arching up into him as Hannibal accurately hit that spot inside of him.

Hannibal quickened his pace, hitting that spot again and again, shifting so as to wrap his hand around the base of Will’s cock, and tugging once, twice, thrice, and Will was coming apart below him, mouth open and shuddering out little ‘ah ah ah’s, his eyes rolling back into his head. Hannibal growled despite himself and leant down to bite the juncture of Will’s neck, the taste of blood and sweat pressed against his tongue and the smell of Will in his nose, the sounds of Will in his ear, and with one final thrust, was coming inside of him.

“Will,” Hannibal gasped into Will’s hair, breathing him in as the white-bright pleasures rippled through him.

Hannibal pulled out and rolled to the side of Will, who was still wracked with spasms every now and again as he came down. Hannibal recovered a little more quickly, placing a protective hand over the scar on Will’s stomach, and leaning down to kiss him.

Will hummed, kissing him back languidly. Hannibal smiled fondly when Will grinned at him, collapsing back tiredly.

What a sight they both must have made, lying sprawled, panting, sweaty on blood stained sheets, hair sex-mussed and skin covered in cum and sweat and scarlet life.

“Are we going to clean me up now?” Will asked, his tone sleepy and sated.

“Yes."

He led Will into the shower, manhandling him gently, cleaning Will carefully, both of them still sensitive, and Will did the same to him in turn. Will washed Hannibal with great concentration, blue eyes focused on the water splicing through the dried blood that had transferred to Hannibal’s skin, and running his hands along the wet muscles of Hannibal’s arms and broad shoulders and chest. Hannibal watched him fondly, kissing the top of Will’s wet hair when Will bent his head to press his lips to Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal spread his hands over Will’s hips and pulled him in, and Will instantly lifted his face to Hannibal’s, pressing their lips together in lazy quiet.

Hannibal had barely changed the bed sheets before Will, still a little damp but seemingly unconcerned, collapsed onto the bed. Hannibal was about to admonish him, but Will was almost instantly asleep, sprawled on his back with his head turned to one side.

Hannibal dried his hair with his towel, returned his own towels and Will’s abandoned ones to the bathroom, dressed himself in his pyjama bottoms and came back to observe Will’s naked form, bared to him on top of the bed sheets. Will was normally a little self-conscious, but that night he was apparently too exhausted to care to get dressed or under the duvet.

Hannibal helped tuck Will in and climbed in beside him. Whilst Hannibal waited for sleep, still filled with the adrenaline of their first successful hunt, in which Will had done all that Hannibal had expected of him and more, Will quickly surrendered to his nightmares. Hannibal was alerted to it when Will began murmuring in his sleep, becoming increasingly distressed and twitchy. Hannibal shushed him and ran a soothing hand down Will’s side, but Will only shivered and did not wake, too lost in whatever was taking place inside of his head.

Hannibal watched for a moment longer with his usual curiosity as to Will’s night terrors, before he decided to examine a little further. He turned onto his side and pressed along Will’s body, resting one hand on Will’s stomach and his other arm high up on the pillows above Will’s head, winding his hand tightly in Will’s curls. He whispered in Will’s ear “Do they want you to submit to them, Will?”

Will muttered some unconscious assent and tossed his head as far as Hannibal’s hold on his hair would allow.

His eagerness to see a finished transformation of Will Graham tempted Hannibal to whisper _‘Then let them,’_ but that would mean consenting forces other than himself to win Will’s submission, to become a part of him and inspire him and change him.

So instead Hannibal brushed Will’s ear with his lips and said, “Tell them there are bigger monsters here than them.”

Will was Hannibal’s. There was no room for anyone – for any _thing_ – else.

“Bigger monsters,” Will repeated breathily, still lost to his other world.

“You and me, my darling.” Hannibal promised, “Bigger monsters.”

***

Will lingered in the kitchen as Hannibal prepared the first cut of meat from Conrad Hempstead; a lean man, not much fat. Perfect for the recipes Hannibal had chosen.

Will was so busy watching the preparation that he made poor work of dicing the spring onion, which Hannibal tutted at and was forced to take over with. Following that Hannibal did not trust Will with anything other than cleaning the cutlery and chopping boards once Hannibal was done with them, but Will did not seem offended. It was better that way, as Hannibal prided on preparing his foods in a certain way, in _his_ way. Will seemed content to observe.

“Something is on your mind, Will,” Hannibal noted, focused on his work, and hoping that there would not be a repeat performance of Will’s anxieties when Hannibal had first cooked meat from their last hunt.

“The meat,” Will said, still not able to refer to its source, despite having cut the slabs of meat from the body himself. Whilst Hannibal was pleased with Will’s progress in some respects, he was determined that their pretending that this human meat, the most diverse of delicacies, was instead beef, pork, lamb…a pretence that Hannibal had slowly tired of after his many hosted dinners in Baltimore, despite it providing the opportunity for Hannibal to play with his guests through clever phrasing and subtle suggestion. He decided to allow Will his slow progress, however, hesitant to push him too far all at once for fear of a volatile outcome not to Hannibal’s favour. “I killed it.”

“You did,” Hannibal replied, curious as to where Will was heading.

“I killed it to eat it.”

“Yes.” Hannibal glanced at Will, who was a little pale and staring at the worktop questioningly, “But you have killed before, and manipulated others to do it for you.” He had been so proud of Will manipulating Chilton and Dolarhyde, and even Matthew Brown when he had come for Hannibal himself, as it had shown improvement in Will; that Will had been adapting, learning.

“I didn’t kill them just to eat them.” Will did not sound disturbed, only matter of fact, like he was attempting to figure it all out. Hannibal hoped that this was the beginning of further progress.

“No. You did it for revenge, and to fight to survive. But you have since killed with me, hunted with me, have you not?”

Will shook his head. “I didn’t kill the last one. You did. It wasn’t by my hand.” He took a breath, and Hannibal waited. “This was different,” Will said. He seemed uneasy, but nowhere near as horrified as he would have once been over the fact that he had killed a man. Hannibal was proud of him. Will nodded at Hannibal’s preparations for dinner, “This was first-degree murder.”

“Actually,” said Hannibal lightly, eager to keep the conversation light-hearted, and making a show of checking on the meat that was roasting in the oven, “It has been at 180 degrees for the last nine minutes. 350 degrees, if we are working in Fahrenheit.”

Hannibal’s gamble had the desired effect. Will laughed. It was an open, startled laugh, that Hannibal had so rarely, but so triumphantly drawn from Will in the past.

 _“You know, Will, I think Uncle Jack sees you as a fragile little teacup. The finest china, used only for special guests.”_ Hannibal had startled the laugh from Will on that morning; the first tentative signs of camaraderie building between them, Hannibal cementing himself in Will’s life with the offer of breakfast and a smile.

Look at the fragile little teacup now. Broken and remade, broken and remade. All pieced back together, stronger each time it lost a shard and regained a new one. The finest china Will still may be, however, for Hannibal’s eyes only.

He remembered Will’s laugh. And he remembered Will’s response; _“How do you see me?”_ Will had been curious. He had wanted to know if Hannibal also saw him as some unhinged, fragile timebomb that needed supervision and care. Hannibal had thought nothing of the sort. He had seen the hidden power and potential in Will even then.

 _“The mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by.”_ And oh, how they had slithered. And how Will had rooted them out, one by one. All but Hannibal, the Chesapeake Ripper and Copycat Killer, ready to test the little mongoose to its full potential. _“Finish your breakfast.”_ Hannibal had ordered before Will had had opportunity to think too much into Hannibal’s response. Will had obeyed Hannibal’s order and Hannibal remembered how he had enjoyed that allowance of leadership. He tested and took advantage of that control, to too far an extreme at some points, he could admit, but it had all brought them here, and Hannibal would never regret that.

‘ _Finish your piece of meat, cut from the thigh of Conrad Hempstead._ ’ Hannibal wanted to command, as he had told Will to finish his breakfast so long ago, but he knew he had to tread far more carefully here.

For the time being, Conrad Hempstead was venison.

Will was grinning at him, and Hannibal brought himself back to the present.

“You and your stupid cannibal puns."

Pleased that Will had acknowledged the terms of the meat, Hannibal gave him every benefit of the doubt for that day. “Do not think them so ‘stupid’ when you clearly enjoy them so much,” Hannibal admonished with a smile.

“Touché.” Will shrugged, leaning back against the opposite counter with his arms crossed over his chest, seemingly intent to carry on observing.

Hannibal allowed him to watch. And when the time came for them to eat the meat roasting in the oven, Hannibal would allow Will his imaginations of other meats, for the time being at least.

***

“So,” Will asked as Hannibal set the plate down in front of him.

Hannibal quickly observed the table and was pleased that Will’s laying of the places and centre pieces was improving by the day.

“What is this?” Will asked.

The question sounded open. As though Will was giving Hannibal an opening to claim that it was something other than the monikers that they had so relied upon with the previous hunt. To tell Will what he really would be eating. But Hannibal inspected Will closely, and saw that tenseness in his shoulders still, that look in his eye. Will still was not ready for every reality this lifestyle was presenting him with.

Hannibal could be patient in this respect as he had been patient in so many aspects of his relationship with Will. He could wait until the day Will was ready for full acceptance. But he decided that despite his previous wishes for Will to accept what was blatant before his eyes, that today was not it.

“Venison,” Hannibal told Will, watching his reaction closely as he unfolded his carefully folded napkin. “Roasted with a juices gravy of rosemary, wine and redcurrant.”

He watched Will nod thoughtfully, uneasily, and look down at his plate.

He watched with renewed interest as Will did a double-take, staring wide-eyed at his plate like he could see the man that truly adorned it, but then his gaze rose up from the plate, in a terrified awe and disbelief that Hannibal realised he had missed seeing on Will’s face. Will was seeing something that Hannibal could not, trapped in one of his visions that had burdened him less and less of late; confined mainly to his nightmares. Hannibal made the connection then, that the stag that haunted Will’s nights may have been triggered by the mention of venison, when the meat on the plate was anything but. Like cushions stuffed with hair that was not of any woodland animal Garret Jacob Hobbs had ever hunted.

Will stared for a good minute or two, in silence and rapt attention.

“A mighty table piece,” Will finally whispered to himself, almost thoughtful.

“What is, Will?” Hannibal prodded curiously, taken back to the days in his office when Will had been dazed from flashing lights and pliant to any manipulation Hannibal wished to inflict upon him, too inflicted by his illness to resist. Will would do anything Hannibal asked of him. Hannibal had gained a taste of that control of Will, back then.

“The antlers.” Will replied, removed and unaware.

And then, all of a sudden, Will had blinked back to awareness. His gaze landed on Hannibal, “Excuse me,” he said, and then picked up his knife and fork and began to tuck in.

Hannibal watched him for a moment or two more before joining him.

Will was still a mystery to him; a wonderful mystery that Hannibal was still finding so enjoyable to decipher. And this made him a most interesting and captivating companion in every respect. The fact that Will was still clearly plagued by nightmares and visions and the instability that his high levels of empathy for serial killers thrust upon him, meant that every position Hannibal placed Will in could help or exacerbate Will’s condition. However, it was a great question as to whether the nightmares and visions were helping or hindering Will’s ultimate transformation and growth. Will relied on Hannibal in those moments, in those moments where Will was afraid and unsure of himself and what was happening to him. Yet Hannibal himself could admit that he was not the most reliable of heroes. Whilst Hannibal played his role and kept Will safe from the nightmares, he was also more than intrigued as to what would happen if he stoked them further. Will Graham was still a mystery that Hannibal highly anticipated the outcomes of, having seen the first stages of it in the past months. Reasons such as this were why Hannibal was so loathe to consider any unlikely situation in which he might tire of Will’s companionship.

Hannibal tried to picture what Will may have seen, the meat on his plate sprouting the points of antlers before they grew up and up and branched until they canopied the whole table.

A mighty table piece indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

Will Graham looked into the mirror. He saw himself staring back.

He saw his bedraggled hair, that he knew was probably getting a tad too long. He was sure that Hannibal would soon make some kind of comment about the length. He saw his glasses, and his soft, navy tracksuit pants that he still believed were too ridiculously expensive to deem as casual wear, no matter what Hannibal said. He saw his grey t-shirt, again having cost at least five times more than what Will would have ever considered paying for a t-shirt. It closely hugged his frame. Will had once wondered if, with living with Hannibal and Hannibal’s passion for food, that he would finally find himself growing soft in the belly and round the edges, but he hadn’t. Hannibal made small, exquisite portions. And apparently one had to keep physically fit to catch their prey; to run down a human being. So Will was still all bone-edged and sinewy muscle; he could see it through the t-shirt, which was of a tighter fit than he would have chosen, but then, he didn’t choose it. Most of all, Will saw his bare feet – two left-feet that were not made for dancing – and the frown on his face that betrayed the fact that he really did not want to be taught ballroom.

“Will?” Hannibal’s voice floated into the bedroom from downstairs, “Are you ready?”

Will shook himself from his daze. “Yes,” Will called back, “I’m coming.”

Will gave himself one more sulky glance before turning away from the mirror and trudging slowly out of the room, down the hallway and down the stairs.

“Hannibal, is this really necessary?” Will asked the moment that he saw Hannibal standing at the bottom of the staircase, waiting for him, looking up at him. “Surely I don’t have to learn how to dance?”

Hannibal’s smile didn’t waver. “We are attending a charity ball, Will. It will be expected of us to dance, especially with the guise we are attending under.”

“But I don’t think you understand that I really cannot dance,” Will argued, as he reached Hannibal. Hannibal would not want to dance with Will if Will kept tripping up over his own feet and causing a visual stumble in Hannibal’s suave demeanour.

Will heard Hannibal cluck his tongue, before his face was being lifted up by two persistent fingers under his chin. He reluctantly looked up at Hannibal’s amused smirk, and Will frowned back.

“I can show you how. Teach you.” Hannibal always did like playing the role of mentor, especially, it seemed, for Will. “All you will have to do is follow my lead.”

Wasn’t Will doing that already in every other aspect of his life? This dance lesson was in preparation for a hunt, after all, and in learning to hunt Will had followed Hannibal’s lead, to plan, to catch, to kill and cook the victim, the way Hannibal had always wanted them to. Dancing would be just more of the same; Hannibal guiding Will in the directions he wanted him to go.

He supposed it was too late to question whether he actually wanted to dance Hannibal’s dance. He was already singing to Hannibal’s tune. He might as well dance it, too.

“Besides,” Hannibal continued when Will had not said anything in response. “You are very elegant, Will. I have actually seen you dance, if you will recall. Admittedly, it was a different form of dance, but you did match Francis Dolarhyde so very well. It was beautiful to behold.”

“It’s not the same,” Will told him.

Hannibal smiled at him, “It is more similar than you would think.” Hannibal took a step forward and closed the space between them, and Will allowed Hannibal to take his hand, “Let me show you,” his eyes searched Will’s face. “Please.”

Will nodded, giving in just to make Hannibal grin triumphantly, teeth flashing at him.

They moved to the lounge, which was spacious enough to give Will hope that he wouldn’t run them into any of the furniture, and before he could argue again, Hannibal had turned on the music, and swept him around and against him, one arm firmly around Will’s waist, the other taking Will’s hand.

 

“Now, put your hand on my shoulder,” Hannibal instructed.

Will did as he was told.

“And then just follow my lead,” Hannibal smiled, moving backwards, giving Will little choice but to follow. “If you have the patience to learn, you will gain poise, strength, grace. It is an alluring gift to possess. And all you have to do to start is follow my steps.”

Will did not know whether they were still within the subject of dance, or if the conversation was taking a turn to double-meaning. Hannibal was beginning to sound like he was talking about his favourite pastime, which was not, as it happened, dance. It was, however, something he considered an art form, which, when done correctly, could be as beautiful and captivating as any dance.

“Let me guess,” Will said insolently, as he watched their feet closely, “Learn the steps, and then it is as easy as one, two, three?”

One, two, three. One, two, three. A different kind of waltz; the preparation, the hunt, the kill. Will had not yet mastered all three, and the step that follows; the tasting and enjoyment of the prize. It was the fourth beat, the unexpected movement that left him stumbling still. But he needed to learn how to dance both the real dance and the metaphorical one, because he would soon be entering a world he had not yet experienced; one full of high society, polite talk, constant scrutiny, and endless backstabbing, of a less bloody kind than Hannibal would approve of. The idea of such a social event had Will squirming in awkward, anxious dread. It was his idea of a nightmare. It was Hannibal’s idea of a good time. He liked to play with his food.

And Hannibal had it all down to a fine art, of course. Will had not yet had the full experience of Hannibal in such high company, but he did not need to. He could imagine it to the finest detail. A ballroom would have a floor full of blood and bodies to choose from, and all the while Hannibal would conduct his perfected performance; dance the dance, talk the talk, dress the part, look just right to fit the bill, to pay the bill. Hannibal was strong, confident, elegant, handsome, in Will’s imagined ballroom and right here with him in the lounge. One, two, three, one, two, three, four. And Will was his partner now, so Will would have to do the same, and follow Hannibal’s lead. One, two, three, one, two, three, four.

Hannibal chuckled under his breath as Will stumbled, and Hannibal kept him upright, “Not quite as easy as one, two, three, but if you are anything, Will Graham, you are a quick learner. We will get you there.”

Will cleared his throat awkwardly, flexing his fingers in Hannibal’s strong grip, and feeling the hard lines of Hannibal’s body against his.

“Is it always this intimate?” Will asked, as Hannibal moved them about the floor.

“Not always,” Hannibal said, and Will felt lips press into his hair, “But it can be for us, can it not?”

Will hummed thoughtfully into Hannibal’s neck, smelling the fresh spices and crisp, clean scent. Hannibal shifted his grip on Will and pulled him even closer, his thumb running steadily down Will’s hip. “Yes. It can,” Will decided.

“The kill is intimate, Will, should the hunt not be as well?” Hannibal asked him, turning them suddenly and expertly, to change their direction.

“That depends on who we are being intimate with,” Will countered. He attempted to falter his steps on purpose, just to see what would happen, and Hannibal overpowered it, keeping them on their proper course. Will smiled.

“Just us, Will. Just between us,” Hannibal told him, concisely possessive. “We are going to the ball under the guise of husbands, after all...”

Will had gaped at Hannibal when Hannibal had first proposed the idea of attending the ball as 'husbands'. It was one thing being intimate with Hannibal in private, but a very public setting with the intention of getting noticed? It was something Will had never been comfortable with with anyone, not just Hannibal, and the idea filled him with an anxious energy.

“…but there will have to be a little baiting, of course,” Hannibal was saying.

Will focused back on Hannibal, “We have to be the lure,” He said, and that thought did not help his nerves a single bit.

“Yes.”

“But that requires being…alluring,” Will frowned. He had played bait once before, but that had been a wildly different setting. All he had had to do was dress in a bit of black leather and act the mysterious stranger to a woman who was shallow enough to care more about his look than his attitude. In this scenario he would be drawn into small talk and educated conversation. He would have to act the part just as much look it. And he had never worn a suit more expensive than the one he had bought for his father’s funeral for less than $100. It had been ill fitted and dark grey, and it had in every way reflected how unsure and lost he had been, before and after his father had left him.

Hannibal clucked his tongue fondly, “We have already established that you are alluring, William…I am changing pace now, move your left foot back, then the right, and again, that’s it…I do not think you will have a problem charming anybody. And of course, I will ensure you look just perfect.” Hannibal pulled back a little and Will looked up in order to meet his eyes. Hannibal was smiling at him proudly, “And I think we will make a dancer out of you yet.”

Will rolled his eyes, “A dancer of more than one type of dance?”

Hannibal’s smile turned a little more sombre and earnest when he said, “You are well on your way to being extremely talented at both. As I have said many a time, you are a surprising man, Will Graham.”

“I won’t surprise you when I say I have never worn a tailor-made suit.”

“I am going to fix that,” Hannibal promised.

Will did not doubt that that was a promise Hannibal was going to keep.

***

Will Graham looked into the mirror. He almost didn’t recognise the man that stared back.

A brand new, tailor made suit that fitted to the letter; a remarkable feat, as Will had never stepped into the tailors; Hannibal had taken all measurements and made the style choices himself. It was a charcoal grey suit, with a crisp white shirt and grey tie, and the combination somehow brought out the blue of his eyes. His face was clean shaven and his curls styled into less of an unruly mess. Will blinked at himself. He had never thought much about the clothes he wore, and he certainly had never considered himself to be ‘handsomely dressed’ before tonight, but that was what he was. He could not deny it.

Will could feel the weight of Hannibal’s gaze raking down his body as he exited the bathroom. Hannibal was still getting dressed, his shirt sleeves rolled up and the buttons and collar of his shirt still open and revealing his haired chest. Hannibal stalled instantly on seeing Will, and Will could not help but shift under that stare.

“Hannibal?” Will asked, “How does the suit look?”

Hannibal made an amused sound, gliding into Will’s personal space and smoothing his hands over the shoulders and down the arms of the suit jacket, gaze now firmly on Will’s face. “It is not about how the suit looks, darling, it is about how _you_ look. And you look absolutely delightful.”

Will could not help but smile at the compliment, “Really?”

Hannibal’s lips tugged up into a smirk, “Yes. Really.” His eyes travelled down Will’s body and back up again.

“Good enough to eat?”

Hannibal laughed, as surprised as Will was by what had just slipped from his mouth.

The next thing Will knew, Hannibal’s lips were pressed to his neck and Hannibal was breathing him in, “Almost too good to eat,” came Hannibal’s response, low and growled against Will’s skin. “I will taste you tonight. When we return home. I will peel that suit off of you piece by piece, and I will eat you up, then, trust me on that.”

Will trusted him on that. And he was looking forward to it. He just had to get through the charity ball, first.

***

Will had not yet told Hannibal that he loved him. He was more than certain that he did; that he had fallen in love with him not long after the first time they had shared a bed as tentative allies, three weeks after their final altercation with Francis Dolarhyde, and not long after the first time they had had sex, not too long after that. The fall into love with Hannibal Lecter had come faster and harder than the fall from the cliff itself.

But he had not told Hannibal quite how he felt. He knew Hannibal had probably guessed as much, and Will had always found upfront sentiment awkward, so he had just never bothered saying it aloud. Hannibal probably knew. He knew Hannibal loved him in return, and Hannibal had told him as much many times; it may not have been the three words themselves on most occasions, but rather a variation of the expression.

There was a small, defiant part of Will that still refused to say it, because it gave Hannibal an upper hand that he wasn’t sure they were even secretly fighting for anymore. Saying it to Hannibal would give Hannibal a power that Will had not entrusted to many before him. He had told his dad that he loved him once, and never again. He assumed he may have said it to his mother, but had been too young when she had left to remember her face, let alone what he had said to her, if he had been able to form coherent sentences at all at that age. He had said it to Molly, but had not said it in as many words to Wally, because they had not reached that level of relationship yet. He had hoped that one day they would have gotten to the point when he could say it to Wally, because Will's father had never said it to him as far back as Will could remember. But Hannibal had taken Wally and Molly from him. And so Will wasn’t so eager to then entrust those words to Hannibal.

The importance of ‘I love you’ may seem contrived and cliché to many in the modern day, an overused statement that is not meant half as much as it is said. To Will it meant a lot more, because not many people had made themselves worthy of his love.

Hannibal was not worthy, either, he supposed. But he loved him anyway.

And that night, at the charity ball, he was finding it hard not to feel like no matter if he said it or not, the fact that he did love Hannibal was going to be glaringly obvious anyway.

Hannibal was the brightest, boldest thing in the room.

When they had arrived at the event, Hannibal had offered his arm to Will, and they had walked through the doors together. Will was Hannibal’s husband for the evening; they were wearing the rings to prove it. Will had looked down at the ring on his finger for the twentieth time that night; it was strange to be wearing one again. It had not been all that long ago that he had worn one for Molly, but he was not about to remind Hannibal of that.

He had walked close to Hannibal’s side as they had been checked off on the guest list and entered the main hall. Hannibal had looked down at him fondly.

“You are shrinking yourself on purpose, Will,” Hannibal had admonished softly, “You are beautiful, and you need to possess that. Use it. Stand up tall and with your shoulders straight. You have no need to be nervous of these people. You are a hunter amongst mere men.”

Will had hummed noncommittally, but had stood a little taller.

It had not been too long before they had attracted attention.

“Well hello there.” A gaggle of women had approached within a matter of minutes, the one in the lead holding out her hand, “I do not believe we have been introduced. I am Clara, and these are my friends Eleanor, Amanda and Marie.”

Hannibal had reached out to take her hand, bending his head to kiss it, and Clara had broken out into flattered giggles, “It is wonderful to make your acquaintance, ladies,” Hannibal grinned at them, a smile full of teeth and charm. “I am Victor, and this is my husband, Adam.”

Will had almost quirked his eyebrow at the decision of his latest false name, but had nodded at the women with a smile he had to force, but he hoped looked genuine.

“Oh, how wonderful. You know, I was just saying to Marie how we needed a couple of handsome men in attendance. And a couple too, how marvellous!”

“You are too kind, Clara,” Hannibal had responded, his accent seeming even more smooth and enunciated than usual, and Will knew Hannibal was doing it on purpose. “Adam and I were just going to get drinks, weren’t we, Adam? Would you ladies care to join us? We are new to the area, so would love being filled in on the fellow company.”

Hannibal had clearly found the perfect thing to say, as the women had all smirked at each other, “We would be delighted.”

Will had stayed close to Hannibal’s side for the next couple of hours, but eventually Hannibal had been drawn away by a man who wanted to introduce him to somebody or other, at the very same moment that Eleanor had asked him about where they were originally from, and how they had met.

“I met Victor whilst on holiday in Denmark,” Will had told her the story he and Hannibal had imagined up together; Adam had been on holiday in Denmark whilst on a spontaneous tour around several European countries following a messy break up, and had met Victor, who was lecturing at a university in Denmark. Adam had had to return to the USA, but Victor had followed him, and they had been married a year later. A picture-perfect story for a couple that were hiding their true image.

“It sounds like a fairy-tale,” Eleanor had gushed.

More a Grimm fairy-tale than a Disney one, Will thought, not that she needed to know that.

It had become clear that none of the four women had captured Hannibal’s attention as a possible victim, and Will was glad for that. But Hannibal had captured many other people’s attention in turn. People just seemed to be enthralled with him, eager to talk to him and quick to laugh at Hannibal’s clever humour.

Will watched as Hannibal conversed with others across the room, and only Will knew how Hannibal was actually judging them. Weighing them. Taking every slight or moment of stand-out rudeness to note.

Hannibal had gathered quite a crowd. He was confident and so very charming. They all seemed to be hanging onto his every word. One woman in particular seemed to be quite enraptured, because she was fawning all over him. Will frowned as he watched her touch Hannibal’s arm as she laughed, or followed him with her eyes when he made an elaborate gesture or smiled.

“I wouldn’t be jealous,” Eleanor broke him from his thoughts.

“Sorry?”

She nodded towards Hannibal, “Your husband is quite charming, but I would not worry if I were you, he is clearly very smitten with you. And who wouldn’t be? You’re delightful,” She nudged him with her shoulder, and grinned at him.

Will found himself genuinely laughing, “Delightful? Me? That is not a word often used for me by anyone other than Victor.” He had nearly said ‘Hannibal’, and caught himself right at the last moment.

“Oh please,” Marie said, sitting down to the other side of him, her latest drink in hand, “Handsome, a little shy, totally mysterious and endearing. You are more than delightful.”

Will found his cheeks heating, not used to women being so forward with him, “Well, thank you,” He said, and found that he meant it, “You are too kind, and also quite delightful yourselves.”

“You charmer,” Marie winked.

Will laughed again, before glancing back to Hannibal, only to find Hannibal watching him back, his expression openly curious.

Will, suddenly experiencing a moment of unusual confidence, leant back a little in his seat and sent Hannibal an easy grin. He knew how he must have looked, suited and drink in hand, a woman on each side.

Hannibal’s expression changed only minutely, but Will saw it. And it did not take long before Hannibal was standing in front of Will and the women, having excused himself from the group across the room.

“Ladies, I think it is about time that I asked my husband for a dance, do you not think?”

“Well I think that is a splendid idea. This one is quite the catch, Victor, you wouldn’t want him to get away,” Marie jested.

“Indeed,” Hannibal agreed, dark gaze heavy on Will’s face. “Shall we?”

Will took Hannibal’s hand, and allowed Hannibal to lead him to the ballroom floor, right past the woman who had been so keen on Hannibal, but Will found himself unable to meet her eye.

“Your shyness only endears you to these people,” Hannibal commented to him, as they took their positions on the wooden dance floor; the orchestra preparing to start the next session of songs. “You are an anomaly in a room of over-confidents.”

“You seem to be making confidence work for you,” Will said, and looked up at Hannibal as Hannibal settled one hand on Will’s waist and took Will’s hand with the other.

Hannibal smiled, slow and easy, “Are you finding yourself charmed, Will?”

“Too late for that,” Will grumbled, and Hannibal laughed, open and loud.

When Hannibal stopped laughing, he pulled Will in even closer, “You may never know how pleased I am to hear you say that, Will.”

And then the music started, and saved Will from having to respond, from getting too close to saying the ‘I love you’s that he wasn’t ready for.

Hannibal started them off in a dance, as other couples moved to the floor.

There was something different about dancing with Hannibal, here and like this. Will’s vast imagination could place him in the shoes of the man he was pretending to be, with the pretend man he was pretending to be married to, with sharp suits and soft hearts. But then why pretend when this was real? He was ballroom dancing with Hannibal Lecter. He was dancing with a murderer. He was dancing with a wanted serial killer and cannibal, in a room full of people who had no idea. He was dancing with a man he had fallen in love with.

Will found the steps came to him easily. Hannibal had taught him often and well for the last few weeks. Hannibal led them and Will followed.

This was not at all like learning at home in socks and slippers. This was smart black shoes moving soundlessly over a dark wood floor. This was a world of their own.

Hannibal was watching him as though mesmerised, and Will lost all focus on the hunt as he began to picture them in a world of their own. He felt graceful, weightless as a moth or a butterfly in flight, as they danced together like fireflies in the night, shining bright in a dull room full of snails.

Will removed them from the dull room. The sea of faces became endless trees as far as the eye could see. They were now dancing in a clearing in the woods somewhere, somewhere far away. Across the sea, on a different continent; Europe, perhaps. They danced together, effortless grace and constantly moving. Hannibal’s wings were clear and bright in the night, veined like the firefly Will hung up for him. Will’s wings were the dark leather of a dragon. They were sailing, flying, twirling round and round.

But eventually they had to come back down. Nobody can fly so high forever. They landed, and Will came back to room with people in beautiful dresses and expensive suits, and Hannibal still outshone them all. The wings were no longer there, but that did not mean that Will could not see them if he wanted to, and the loss of them made Hannibal no less magnificent to behold.

“Where were you, Will?” Hannibal whispered to him, as Will finally blinked back up at him again, “Where were you?”

“I was somewhere else, but still with you. Still dancing with you.”

“Good, because you are truly becoming a most wonderful dancer.”

“I had a good mentor.”

Hannibal grinned at him, “I plan to teach you all that I know.”

“I still have a lot to learn, then.”

Hannibal laughed quietly in his ear, “A little more, yet. You will enjoy what is to come.”

“Will I?” Will asked, as Hannibal spun them in three quick circles, and Will was surprised to hear a smattering of light applause about the room.

“Oh yes,” Hannibal said, “I will make sure of that.”

Hannibal’s eyes were dark and near maroon, and Will was captured. A small, pleased smile played at the corner of Hannibal’s mouth and Will lifted his hand from Hannibal’s shoulder to trace it with his thumb.

“Which one of these people will it be?” Will asked, ready to fight for the right to leave Clara, Eleanor, Marie and Amanda alone.

“Whoever you will enjoy learning what I can teach you with the most.”

Will already had someone in mind.

“It will take a couple more events yet,” Hannibal told him. “I am teaching you the long hunt. It is not as easy, but it is in many ways far more satisfying.”

Will cocked his head, “Was I a long hunt?”

Hannibal considered that, “More of a project, to be honest.”

“Should I be flattered or insulted?”

“That depends on whether you find gaining my attention so fully a compliment or not.”

“It was a curse, really though, wasn’t it?”

Hannibal’s look turned curious, and Will also noticed a flicker of something else, which could have been hurt, which was slightly amusing, considering what Hannibal had once put Will through. “Do you still think it a curse?”

No. Will did not. Right at that moment, he was under no curse but a spell, as they turned and moved on the dance floor.

“No,” Will replied honestly, and Hannibal’s hardened expression softened. “And I suppose that being so captivating to a man like you would certainly be a compliment, but I was put through a hell of a lot of horror in the process.”

“If I hadn’t would we be dancing here, right at this moment?”

The piece that the orchestra was playing was coming to an end, and Hannibal slowed them down.

“No, probably not,” Will admitted.

It had been an absurd and horrific journey to get where they were now, but his new life with Hannibal had brought a happiness with it that Will had not known before.

“Would you rather not have had it end this way?”

“But we aren’t ending anything,” Will said, as Hannibal swirled them to a sudden stop.

For a moment everything else stopped too, and Will suddenly pictured them alone once more, in the woods somewhere, stretching out their wings. This wasn’t an end, this was the continuation of a long and complex story. It was not over yet, and if Will had his way, it would not be over for a long time.

“The piece has ended,” Hannibal supplied.

“But we don’t have to,” Will said, “Can we dance to the next one?”

Hannibal smiled, “We can. Does this mean that the journey to get to the here and now was worth it?”

If it meant that they could dance again, Will could say that the crime scenes and gory murders, the manipulation of his encephalitis, the murders of Beverley and Abigail, the scars he now wore on his body, that had all gotten them to that moment were worth it. Hannibal was rather skilled at making Will forget those things, in moments like this.

He wanted this moment to last.

“It was worth it,” He said. He did love the man, after all.

Hannibal grinned, eyes crinkling in the corners; the only endearing serial killer Will had ever encountered (and he had encountered a fair few), and he positioned them ready for the next dance, keeping them within sight of their potential targets, ready to draw them all in like fish to a colourful fishing-fly, only for them to find the razor sharp hook underneath.

***

Will Graham looked into the mirror and saw a new man staring back at him.

He saw a Will Graham that had attended a high-society event and had assimilated rather well. A Will Graham that was smartly suited and booted. He saw the man he had pretended to be that night; married and smitten. He saw the shyness of the old Will Graham that the new Will Graham had been unable to shake. He saw the confidence of the new Will Graham that the old Will Graham would never have dreamed of possessing.

He looked elegant, all smooth lines, rather than awkward and sharp.

He could see a man who was changing, transforming, to someone else. Something else. A change that was ultimately out of his control.

He cupped tap water in his hands and rubbed it into his face.

_Do you see? Do you see?_

He saw most things now. Almost everything except where his final transformation was heading. That was totally out of his hands. And also out of Hannibal’s. He knew that that infuriated and intrigued Hannibal. Hannibal always said he could never really predict him. Will could sometimes not even predict himself.

His tie suddenly felt too tight, and he tugged at the knot to loosen it, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt and shedding his jacket. He was worried that at any moment, the dragon wings he so often dreamt about would grow and tear through the fabric at his shoulder blades. He didn’t want to ruin a good jacket.

He saw Hannibal approaching the bathroom through the mirror. He saw the way Hannibal was looking at him. No matter how much Will was worried he was changing, Hannibal always looked at him just the same as he had always done, and that was comforting.

“Will?” Hannibal asked, stepping into the bathroom. He was dressed down too; his shirt completely open, his tie gone, and his hair less immaculately swept back. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Will scrubbed a hand across his face another time, before moving to step away from the sink, only to find that Hannibal had pressed up close behind him. “I’m fine, just, thinking about this evening.”

“What about it?” Hannibal asked him, and Will leant back into Hannibal’s arms as they encircled him.

“Just how it went, and how I fitted into it all. If you had put me in that room five years ago I would have been heading straight for the nearest exit.”

“But you enjoyed yourself tonight?”

Will thought about it. He had fitted in, yes. He had played the part, yes. But the only time he had actually enjoyed himself was when he had been dancing with Hannibal. “I enjoyed dancing with you,” He told him, “I enjoyed that.”

He watched in the mirror as Hannibal smiled into his hair, eyes finding his in the reflection, “I enjoyed dancing with you, too.” Hannibal’s hands trailed up Will’s chest, slowly undoing the buttons of Will’s shirt as he went. “You are an excellent partner.”

Will considered this. He knew how much Hannibal had enjoyed himself that evening, having Will beside him, and especially having Will uncomfortable in the surroundings, and therefore relying on Hannibal to speak for them on occasion, and staying close to his side, letting Hannibal lead their dances. He knew Hannibal found pleasure in dominance; as a killer, as a professional, as a friend and as a lover. He knew Hannibal had felt dominance that evening and had enjoyed it. He knew Hannibal was still feeling that right there in the bathroom.

He wanted to see where it would take them. So he said, “And you are an excellent leader.”

It worked a charm. He watched Hannibal’s eyes darken through the mirror. Hannibal’s hands spanned over Will’s chest and stomach as Hannibal ducked his head to mouth along Will’s neck. Will tipped his head obediently to the side.

One of Hannibal’s hands slowly trailed up to Will’s neck, and the next thing Will knew, Hannibal had it wrapped lightly around his throat.

“Look at me,” Hannibal commanded softly, and Will did as he was told. Hannibal grinned against the shell of Will’s ear, their eyes locked through reflection. “There would be a time when you would have hesitated to make that eye contact with me. You were not keen on eye contact.”

“I am still not. Eyes are distracting,” Will remained adamant on that. Hannibal’s eyes were being damn distracting right at that very moment.

“I noticed this evening that the shadows of your old habits returned to you. It was fascinating to watch. Shy, unable at first to make long-term eye contact…” Hannibal’s breath tickled Will’s ear and Will shuddered beneath Hannibal’s hands, swallowing against the palm pressed against his throat. “You were far more distracting than any eye contact in that room. But then I saw you later on, bold as brass, watching me from across the room. What were you thinking about when you were watching me, Will?”

Will broke eye contact then, he looked down at where his hands gripped the edge of the sink, “You had them all captivated,” He said, “You are miles more intelligent than any of them. Your wit, your charm, your looks, you just know how to use it all to your advantage.”

“And did I captivate you, Will?” Hannibal asked, as the hand not closed around Will’s neck slid downward, and began unfastening Will’s suit pants.

“Yes,” Will gasped, as Hannibal’s hand slipped past the confines of Will’s pants and underwear, wrapping long, elegant fingers around Will’s cock. “Yes, consider me captivated.”

Hannibal laughed into his hair, “Look at us, Will.”

Will lifted his gaze again, and saw them; half undressed and pink-skinned, mussed hair, and Hannibal’s hand shoved into Will’s pants. It was a debauched picture, and Will cringed back into Hannibal. They hadn’t done anything like this before; not in front of a mirror. He had never seen them together like this.

Hannibal steadied him, “Do you want me to stop?”

That was the last thing Will wanted Hannibal to do. He was hard in Hannibal’s grasp, pressed up between the sink and Hannibal, with only the mirror to look forward into, his heart rate was speeding up, and his mouth was going dry. Will vigorously shook his head to indicate that no. No he did not want Hannibal to stop.

“Good boy,” Hannibal murmured, only just loud enough for Will to hear.

Will bit back a moan at both the words, and the way Hannibal suddenly brushed his thumb over the head of Will’s cock. Will pushed back into Hannibal’s body, “Hannibal,” he groaned, voice embarrassingly rough and needy already.

It did not take long for Hannibal to get their suit pants and underwear shoved down to around their thighs, and Will bent over the sink as Hannibal reached back to the shelves behind them to find the nearest lubrication.

The bathroom was warm and stuffy, and Will could feel beads of sweat gathering at his temples as Hannibal slowly worked him open, his other arm anchored around Will’s shoulders. Will could not help how his gaze flickered to their reflection and away again. He was curious, but the sight was also too much, and he felt his skin heat just at the quick glimpses of them that he allowed himself. Every time he did look, though, Hannibal was looking right back, watching them intently, watching every expression Will made as he gradually added a second and then a third finger.

“Hannibal,” Will moaned, pushing forward against the arm restricting his movement, and Hannibal loosened it so that Will could lean forward and push his damp forehead into his arms where they rested on the brim of the sink. Will let out a long groan, muffled by his forearm, as Hannibal found the sweet spot that had Will’s knees shaking and making him glad to have the sink as support.

“Will,” Hannibal said, his voice rough and raw, “Are you ready for me?”

Will made an approving noise that was supposed to be words but ended up being less than coherent. It did not matter, he got what he wanted a moment later, as Hannibal entered him.

God, Hannibal always made him feel so good. The burn gave way to pleasure in a few aching moments, and Hannibal took a hold of his hips in a strong, steadying grip. Hannibal fucked him slow and thorough, just as he always had. They had never had fast, punishing sex, not once. Hannibal always made love to him, and although Will enjoyed it each and every time, he had begun to imagine what it might be like, making Hannibal lose his control, not calculating every move for Will’s benefit, but making his own pleasure his priority. He had also imagined what it would be like to be inside Hannibal, which they also had not done before. Every time he wanted to suggest it, and see if Hannibal would be interested in that, he always stopped himself at the last minute. They worked well this way, and maybe Hannibal wasn’t inclined to the latter. Will knew he would never know if he didn’t ask, but he had so far been too uncertain and embarrassed to ask.

Will’s hipbones were knocking against the porcelain, and he knew he would probably get bruises, but he honestly could not find it in himself to care as Hannibal hit that spot inside of him that had Will whining aloud and straightening up as he pushed back onto Hannibal. Hannibal clearly took the opportunity to gather Will up and back and close to him, forcing Will on his toes as he thrust up into him. They slowed for a moment, and Will stood fully, flinging his arm back around Hannibal’s neck, as Hannibal descended on his throat with teeth and tongue.

Will forced himself to look at them in the mirror, and found himself choking in shock at how the sight of them turned him on. Will’s shirt was open and sticking his flushed, sweat-damp skin in every way, and Will could feel how the back of his shirt was stuck to Hannibal’s front as Hannibal pressed up against him. Will’s eyes were heavy-lidded and black as he watched them, head tilted to the side and mouth hanging open as he gasped. Hannibal’s strong arms were still at his waist, and Hannibal himself had his eyes closed, licking slowly up to Will’s hairline, the motion of his hips all but ceased, but Will could still feel Hannibal, rock hard, and filling him so completely.

Hannibal must have felt Will’s gaze on him, because he opened his eyes, and looked up, strands of his hair falling forward into his eyes, his lips swollen and smiling smugly against Will’s skin.

“What do you want, Will?” Hannibal asked, his hands suddenly moved; one hand reaching up to grasp Will’s hair, as the other moved down towards his cock, but stopping inches away from touching.

“Touch me,” Will breathed out from between clenched teeth, “Please. Please.”

Hannibal’s fingers clenched his hair harder and he turned Will’s head toward him, to take a demanding kiss from him, at the same moment that he obeyed Will’s demand.

Will’s breath left him in stuttered staccato as Hannibal’s fingers encircled his cock once more.

Will averted his gaze once more from the mirror, the image almost too much for him, too obscene.

“No,” Hannibal said firmly, his free hand taking hold of Will’s chin, “Look at us, Will. Look at me.”

Will only half-obeyed. He did not look at them, or the movement of Hannibal’s hand. He looked right at Hannibal, locking gazes with him through the reflection. Hannibal smiled at him, slow and lazy, eyes liquid, hair astray.

It did not take long for Hannibal to have Will coming after that, spilling over Hannibal’s fingers, his own stomach, and the sink in front of him. Hannibal then bent him back over the sink in order to fuck into him again with earnest, one hand returning to its place on Will’s hip, whilst the other curled around Will to run fingers over the raised scar on Will’s stomach.

Hannibal soon came with a grunt of Will’s name, and they stood there for a few moments, weak-kneed and panting, before Will nudged Hannibal back with his elbow and standing upright after Hannibal pulled out of him.

“You have ruined my suit,” Will informed him, looking at the sweat and cum-stained shirt, hanging open and damp from his shoulders. He could feel cum slowly trailing down his inner thigh; no doubt the suit pants would be ruined too.

“No matter,” Hannibal said, pulling the shirt aside on Will’s shoulder and kissing the skin there, “I have ordered you a number of suits for future events.”

Of course he had. “That doesn’t mean you get to ruin each one each time.”

“Does it not?” Hannibal smiled, eyes crinkling in the corners.

***

Will Graham looked into the mirror. He wasn’t sure what it was that he saw staring back at him.

It had taken four more events within the same social circle for their hunt to come to fruition. More polite small talk, more charm. Hannibal had made Will choose the victim. Will chose the rich woman that had appeared so enamoured with Hannibal that first occasion, and had increasingly continued to be so. Will did not tell Hannibal that one of the main reasons for his choice had been jealousy, a possessive dislike of the woman that Will had never felt towards anyone before, because his relationship with Hannibal was different from any other that he had had before. Hannibal had not argued with Will’s choice; Hannibal had apparently made a mental list of a great number of things about the woman that were apparently enough to sentence her amongst the rude and intolerable.

They had reeled her in, and it had only been a matter of Hannibal asking her if she would like to join them for drinks at their house after one event, to eventually catch her. She had not told anybody where she was heading, and nobody had seen her leave with them. There were no security cameras to capture them leaving together.

It was almost too perfect.

The kill had been almost flawless too; the best Will had achieved so far, Hannibal had told him. Because Will had been the one to kill her. There was no upset or moral-crisis this time, only a neat slit of the throat; nothing grand or fancy, but Hannibal had wanted her drained that way for whatever culinary reason he had in mind. Will had felt the give of skin and tendons under the knife, felt her spasm under his hands, but he had not felt the remorse at being a murderer as he had done for their last two hunts. Maybe that meant he was improving. Maybe that meant that his heart was growing blacker; black in the moonlight, black as the blood that the blackening heart pumped around his body.

Will had kept away from the spray of blood; keen not to ruin another suit. Hannibal had scooped him up and held him close and called him beautiful, even though it was Hannibal’s beauty that had drawn the woman in in the first place. Will could see the pride and adoration in Hannibal’s gaze as Will placed the bloodied knife out of the way on the table, and Will could see the beauty in Hannibal, too.

The woman had craved Hannibal’s attention, but his attention was not hers to have. He was Will’s. It was a possessive thought, and once again strayed too close to the boundaries of love that Will still refused to audibly admit to. Will wanted to say to Hannibal that he was more of a beautiful creature than Will would ever be, but he could not find the words for that, either.

Creatures of beauty. Creatures of grace. There’s a creature looking back at Will that wears his face.

His creature isn’t so lovely, isn’t so enviable as Hannibal Lecter’s is. Will’s is twisted and coiled in partial darkness, still not fully developed, still so swamped in the confusions of whether it should be growing antlers or dragons wings. Playing a cello or cultivating mushrooms or honey. Becoming a firefly or a cave bear. Or maybe making a masterpiece, creating an eye in shades as subtly diverse as the colours of human skin.

His creature eats meat now, too. Human meat. It’s part Wendigo, now.

The first cut of meat from the woman had been cooked in herbs and vinegar. It had been delicious. Killing her had felt pretty delicious, too.

The creature in the mirror flexed its muscles, stretched its wings, shook its antlered head.

Will Graham looked into the mirror. There was something looking back at him. He just wasn’t sure that it was Will Graham anymore. This, this looked like something new. This looked like something grown comfortable with its new lifestyle.

Creature of power. Creature of grace. It’s growing from darkness, and it’s wearing his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the long wait for the final part of this story, it's been a struggle past some writer's block, but finally it is finished! So I really hope you enjoyed! As always, any kudos, bookmarks and comments are so very appreciated. Thank you for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> So I read an article today in which Hugh Dancy said that he would totally make another series of Hannibal, but that it might be a few years before anything will be considered. Well, until then, dear Hugh, I will just have to keep writing my post-series 3 Murder Husbands headcanons then, won’t I?
> 
> I hope you all enjoy! Kudos and comments are my fuel, and are always greatly appreciated.


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